The Price to Pay
by altairattorney
Summary: This is the end. It really is. What this isn't, in fact, is the end he expected.


**The Price to Pay**

As long as the storm comes from outside, Wander can no longer be scared.

That is the greatest force he can resort to, at the end of his journey. His long fight taught him the way. There cannot be harm in overcoming new trials, if he never has any idea what to expect – against the unknown, gaining new experience is what counts the most.

If each battle made him physically stronger, essential as that is, it also taught him quicker paths to victory. He could learn, he constantly told himself – and if he did, he would be able to face just about anything.

He certainly wouldn't have made it to here, hadn't he been well-prepared.

The force that can break him down is neither loss nor solitude. It is not the thought that he could fall – not even in these precipices, determined as they seem not to quit growing deeper. It is not then, at the beginning, that Wander starts being afraid.

It happens later, almost secretly. It begins when the first raindrops plunge down from the clouds, and the few handholds he has left grow slippery with moss and water. When the wind picks up, sweeping the stairwells, and tears apart his wet body with cold shivers.

It hits him fully on the open field, in the split waking second he is given. It is enough for Wander to find out he is terrified. He does not have time to reflect on it, though.

When he awakens again, he is lying on the ground of a a hole he barely recognizes, surrounded by stone splinters and the smell of burnt flesh. He barely musters enough energy to rearrange his thoughts.

He must buy some time, he hazily reflects, as soon as he can remember where he is and why. He fainted before he even knew the reason. He cannot afford to be knocked out like that.

The next thing he can focus on is brought to him by the cold rain, still drenching him from the breach just above. He wasn't lied to, in a sense. He has a feeling that, from realms unknown, something greater than he can conceive is getting in his way.

The dim light, the walls, the building – he can feel them all around, drenched in a powerful sort of curse. He knows it well; he felt it fifteen times, as it set his body aflame.

Everything is turning against him, as it should. This is the end.

And the whirlwind of dread captures him again, finally justifying itself.

It is not because of the curse, or whatever it may send against him. He does not fear what comes at him – the things that attacked him, no matter how numerous, always succumbed to him eventually.

He can face them. He always could.

But he cannot, if his body gives out first.

He gets on his feet, for the first time of many. It shocks him to discover how difficult it is. His nerves, alight with pain, help convey his anguish to the very last inch of his flesh.

He can still dodge, seek shelter, escape. He can avoid being hit. But how can he hope to fight back his own weakness?

There is no solution to that. The cycle of falling and rising he gets caught in only proves it further. The force that crushes him to the ground, leaving him to float in and out of consciousness, is determined to convey the same message each time.

He never stood a chance, it repeats, with equal strength and mockery. He only got this far to discover he is powerless.

If that is true, he does not want to know. He cannot afford to doubt his purpose at this point. But now, mere steps away from his goal, Wander is finally overwhelmed by the awareness of what he got himself into.

He could still make it, or could succumb. He cannot tell for sure. In either case, it is getting unbearable.

He raises his hand to the fire that rages in his throat, instinctively, as if to soothe it. It isn't long before he must lean against the wall for support. He passes his trembling fingers through his darkened hair, glued to his feverish forehead by rain and dirt.

He should have foreseen it. He should have known what the piercing black, the only reward of his fights, was meant for.

If he is not going to give in, something else will try to make him. He never planned on surrendering for sure – and if he was weakened, round after round, it was so that he would eventually find himself with no other choice.

This is the end. It really is. What this isn't, in fact, is the end he expected.

He coughs up blood, right at the edge of the structure. One climb – nothing more. All he has left to do stands in front of his eyes.

He will march on, he decrees. And he does. What else is left for him to do?

While his flesh was being torn and his bones broken, his will stood intact. If he got this far, he does not lack resolve.

As long as he lives, he can still try.

Even so, as he reaches for the first humid plates, Wander gets the distinct impression that he is not going to make it.

* * *

I made it, friends! I finally made it! I got to the end of this gorgeous game a ten days ago, three years and a half after buying it. It was a long run, but all worth it. I am going to play it again for sure, it was just too much. 

Dat final fight. Most epic fight in the history of video games. No kidding.


End file.
